


Make Me Forget

by dreamsofspike



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8579224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: Crowley's a little traumatized by his experience with Lucifer. Dean helps him forget about it, if just for a little while.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milly_gal](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=milly_gal).



> Content/Warnings: mild dom/sub, mild bondage, implied past torture/abuse/non-con (maybe), no actual sex in this story

Crowley isn’t really all that surprised by his current predicament.

 

In spite of his warning advice, Castiel insisted on calling Dean and informing him of their plans to find and destroy Lucifer – a plan Crowley knows the boys can’t be too pleased with. It’s only been a matter of hours – however long it must have taken Sam and Dean to finish their current case, Crowley presumes – and now, he finds himself standing before a grim-faced Dean Winchester, directly in the center of a large devil’s trap painted on the dingy tile floor of a cheap motel room.

 

He gives Dean a swift once-over, taking in the tension of his shoulders, the troubled look in his eyes, the angry set of his jaw. He knows at once why Dean is upset with him – but he also knows that he isn’t in any real danger. There’s only one reason why Dean would call him _here_ , instead of to the conveniently located dungeon in the basement of the bunker.

 

He doesn’t want Sam to know that he’s summoned Crowley at all.

 

Crowley is fairly certain that if Sam had his way, he’d already be dead. If Sam was a part of this summoning, Crowley knows that he’d be inclined to simply end Crowley while they had the chance, rather than allow him to leave alive.

 

And despite the bad blood that’s passed between them recently – it appears that Dean doesn’t quite have the stomach for that. He’d rather deal with Crowley alone, than to have to explain to his brother, or try to come up with some sort of convoluted reason why Crowley’s worth more to them alive than dead.

 

“What are you doing with Cas?” Dean’s voice is stern, accusing.

 

“Looking for Lucifer, as he told you,” Crowley sighs. “We want to get rid of him before he can do any more damage. How on earth could that possibly be a _bad_ thing?”

 

The corner of Dean’s mouth turns up in something that is too wary, too worried to be genuine amusement. “You just have a history of getting Cas into trouble, that’s all. I’d prefer if you’re gonna take on Lucifer, you do it without him.”

 

“And with whose help, then, if not his?” Crowley demands, frustrated. “He’s a grown angel, he makes his own choices. I never forced him into anything. And besides, it’s not as if anyone else is lining up to join me in taking on Lucifer…”

 

Dean gives him a little half-shrug. “You didn’t ask _me_.”

 

His words give Crowley pause, and he studies Dean’s face a little more closely. He can see the slight hesitation there, the guarded expression in Dean’s eyes that makes Crowley wonder if perhaps Dean might have orchestrated this little encounter with something more in mind than simply warning him away from his pet angel.

 

“You seem to have enough of your own problems to deal with at the moment,” Crowley answers at last, his eyes locked onto Dean’s as Dean moves slowly closer to him. “And besides, this particular favor to humanity is a bit… personal, for me,” he admits, not quite sure why he’s admitting it, except that there is a subtle shift in the air between them as Dean removes the distance between them, a rekindling of an old intimacy they once shared.

 

“You want him to pay for what he did to you.” Dean stops just on the edge of the trap, studying Crowley a little too closely for Crowley’s comfort, and the dethroned demon king looks away, uneasy. When Dean speaks again, his voice is much closer, and Crowley startles slightly when he realizes that Dean has joined him in the trap. “And you want him to never be able to do it again.”

 

Crowley can’t quite look at Dean, feels that he already has given too much away, somehow. Dean raises his hand and reaches toward him, and Crowley doesn’t quite flinch – he has too much control for that – but his breath catches slightly, and he swallows hard.

 

“Damn.” Dean’s voice is hushed as his hand stills without making contact, galling sympathy in his voice as he continues softly. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

 

“He made me his dog.” Crowley bites off the words, slow and carefully measured because he’s far too close to losing control. He _was_ fairly certain he was hiding it well on the outside, until a moment ago. Damn Dean Winchester and his ability to read Crowley like no one else has ever been able to do. But on the inside, he’s shaking apart, so he allows anger to show rather than fear, as he continues, “He… humiliated and abased me in front of my subjects. I can’t allow that to stand.”

 

“No,” Dean concedes quietly. “No, you can’t.” He’s silent for a moment before adding, “I’ll help you. It’s in all of our best interests to put him back in that box of his, or get rid of him once and for all. I’ll help you.”

 

Crowley looks up at him, surprised by the offer – and surprisingly touched by it as well. He sees understanding in Dean’s eyes, and that understanding could easily turn to mockery. Dean could call him on the things he sees, in spite of Crowley’s best efforts to conceal them.

 

Dean doesn’t.

 

Dean holds his gaze, and moves in closer, pressing one hand up against the wall by Crowley’s head as he leans in and lowers his mouth to catch Crowley’s in a slow, lingering kiss. This is very dangerous, Crowley knows – dangerous because five minutes after they leave this place, Dean will want to pretend that it never happened. Dean will shove the memory of it back into the dark recesses of his mind and Crowley will be left with nothing but a relapse of the habit he’s only just barely managed to kick.

 

He kisses back anyway, reaching up one hand to cup the back of Dean’s head, drawing him down, closer. Dean reaches up and grasps his wrist, pulls it down and presses it against the wall over Crowley’s head, silently demanding, and _taking_ , full control of this encounter. It’s a familiar rush, a swell of desire low in his stomach, and Crowley accepts it, allows Dean to hold him against the wall and kiss him until he forgets that he doesn’t _need_ to breathe.

 

Dean does, though, and he draws back finally, releasing Crowley’s wrist and letting it fall. Crowley slowly opens his eyes, allowing himself to luxuriate in the hazy, heady feeling for a long moment, before blinking up at Dean – who is holding something out in his free hand, something silver and gleaming in the dim light of the bedside lamp across the room.

 

“Here’s a thought,” Dean says, his voice low and rough, and Crowley suppresses a shiver at the evidence that Dean wants him, it’s not just wishful thinking. “Since we’re here and all… got this room for the night… how about I take your mind off it? Just… one more time, for old time’s sake.”

 

Crowley isn’t sure whether what he’s feeling is fear, or arousal, or both, as he recognizes the cuffs swinging from Dean’s index finger, etched with demon-binding sigils, capable of rendering him powerless as a mortal man against Dean’s far superior physical strength. His mouth feels dry, his heart impossibly racing. He gives Dean a dark, incredulous look.

 

“Yes,” he replies, his words dripping with sarcasm, and to his credit, only a touch unsteady. “Precisely the thing I need to forget about being enslaved and tortured by the devil himself – is to be enslaved and tortured by _you_.”

 

“I’m not gonna torture you,” Dean argues, but he doesn’t back off. His voice is still hushed, low and intimate. “Not unless you want me to. And don’t pretend that’s not something you’re into. I haven’t forgotten.” Dean is edging in closer with every word, the hand that holds the cuffs sliding up under the edge of Crowley’s shirt. His mouth is close to Crowley’s ear, his breath hot and his voice a low rumble of enticing words. “How you like to be held down… to be punished… to be _made_ to do as you’re told…” Crowley’s breath catches at the cool brush of metal against his skin, the contrast of it against the rough, warm brush of Dean’s thumb, and he closes his eyes for a moment – before reaching down to catch Dean’s wrist and halt his progress.

 

His voice is breathless, but he makes himself look up and meet Dean’s eyes. “Why would I ever let you do that again? Especially now?”

 

Dean holds his gaze, and suddenly all teasing is gone from his voice, his words heavy and intent. “Because you know I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want.” He gently twists his wrist out of Crowley’s grasp. “I never did – even when I was a demon. Did I?”

 

Crowley swallows, hesitates, but then shakes his head.

 

No. Even at his worst, even when he could have with just the slightest of effort – Dean has never forced his advantage over Crowley. Even as a demon, Dean was always, on some fundamental level, a _gentleman_.

 

Dean glances down to the side, draws Crowley’s gaze to the edge of the trap, where he very deliberately scrapes off the paint with the steel toe of his boot, rendering the trap useless. Crowley feels his power flood back into him, feels a sense of relief at the knowledge that he can leave at any time now, that he could overpower Dean if he had to.

 

But… he doesn’t want to do either.

 

Dean waits until Crowley meets his eyes again, and then holds out the cuffs, making no move to use them, just quietly waiting for Crowley to take them. Crowley takes them automatically, though he just clutches them tightly in his hand, doesn’t put them on. He’s fighting the fear of submission, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knows Dean didn’t put there.

 

“Come on, Crowley.” Dean’s voice is quietly reproachful, but not without sympathy. “You know better. If the day ever comes that I _do_ have to hurt you… you’re gonna see it coming. I wouldn’t trick you into it. Not like this.”

 

Crowley knows Dean’s telling the truth. Maybe at one time, those words wouldn’t have been true, but now – now, there’s too much history between them. Sam could shoot him in the back without a second thought, could use any means of deception to make him vulnerable and take advantage of it, because in Sam’s eyes, Crowley doesn’t deserve respect, or even compassion. To Sam, Crowley’s just like any other monster – and he _kills_ monsters.

 

But Dean – Dean sees Crowley as more than that now.

 

More than a monster. More than a nuisance to be dealt with.

 

More than a slave to be used and violated.

 

“Put those on,” Dean instructs softly, leaning in and running a hand through the hair at the back of Crowley’s neck, tugging lightly, just enough to pull his head back a little and make his breath quicken with anticipation at the sense of vulnerability, his throat exposed to the gleaming white of Dean’s secretive smile. “And I promise I’ll make you forget…”

 

It’s an enticing offer, and one he realizes, all at once, that he _does_ feel safe accepting – because he’s figured it out now.

 

 _Dean_ has something he’s trying to forget at the moment, too. Something that’s making him feel powerless, out of control – and he needs this as much as Crowley does. Needs to feel powerful, needs to grasp and take and push Crowley down onto his knees, because he knows Crowley can take it. Knows that deep down on some level, he _needs_ it.

 

Crowley’s _always_ needed it, and needs it now, and needs it to not be tainted by the memories of someone who twisted his most secret desires and used them to break him.

 

Dean doesn’t want him broken.

 

Dean enjoys his _willing_ surrender.

 

So Crowley pulls away from Dean’s hand, watches as it drops to his side again, watches the trace of disappointment in Dean’s eyes as he takes a resigned step backward. And then Crowley holds up the cuffs between them, and very deliberately places them on his own wrists, the _click_ as they lock into place loud in the stillness of the room.

 

A soft smile touches Dean’s lips, and he nods his approval. “Good,” he says softly, a little breathless already with the heady rush of the power Crowley’s handing over. “That’s good…”

 

Crowley glares up at him, a warning edge to his voice. “If you refer to me as ‘good boy’ right now, Dean, I’ll…”

 

“ _No_.” Dean’s voice is abruptly sharp, and Crowley flinches slightly as Dean grabs his hair again, forceful and sharp. “You’re no one’s dog,” Dean declares, fierce and soft at the same time. “You’re a _king_. You don’t crawl for anyone… and you only bow when you want to.”

 

Crowley feels his remaining reservations melt away, and he closes his eyes with relief, nodding slowly in agreement. “Yes,” he whispers, unable to mask the sense of gratitude he feels. “Yes, Dean…”

 

“And the only one you want to bow to,” Dean continues, “is me. Right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Crowley nods again, breathless with desire, and Dean releases him so that he can slide to the floor – a king on his knees before a knight, in willing surrender. He doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow - and right now, he doesn’t care. This is his choice, his will, and in this moment, he’s unbroken, as Dean keeps his promise… and makes him forget.


End file.
